.

my hands were covered in clay,
slippery and wet when he said,

"where are the keys?".

my eyes pointed,
"in my pocket ... just a sec."

"which one?"

he slid his hands around hips,
slipped them into both sides,
fingers stretched until
the keys were reached.

the Anglo-Norman word pokete traces
its roots to the Germanic rootword
'bag' which is like the Old English
word pocca. whereas the Scottish sporran
refers to that small purse worn at the
front of a traditional kilt. the word
sporran itself comes from the old Irish
word sparán which traces its roots back
to the Latin word bursa, or 'purse'.
'purse' and 'pocket', incidentally, have
the same root word (even if one is plural
and the other singular).

since then, I've had a thing for pockets.
side pockets, breast pockets, hidden
pockets in any number of places, and
all things related to the word itself.
pockets inside clothing and phrases
(like pocket money, pocket guides,
pocket watches, outofpocket expenses,
stolen pockets of time).

last night I had a dream about finding
a hidden room that was filled with
antiques and art. earlier today,
I took out an old leather pocket
book of my father's. the smell of it
reminded me of him. I'd held it many
times before; it has a sideways flap
that still holds a snall piece of tissue
paper he put there. but today I unfolded
it for the first time and found a small
diamond tie clip. something I had not
seen before.

perhaps it is the notion of hidden things,
spaces that enclose the potential for
something unexpected. or perhaps it
is the disorientation that comes from
uncovering something completely
new. that, and whatever comes
from clay-covered hands.

"Just when we're safest, there's a sunset-touch,
A fancy from a flower-bell, someone's death,
A chorus-ending from Euripides."

(Robert Browning)